Sunrise with a Notorious Lord (6 page)

*   *   *

“Vane, what on earth are you doing here?”

Vane turned his head when he heard his name, and mentally winced. Dare’s wife had just entered the dressmaker’s shop with two of her friends. Any hope that his friends would remain ignorant of his small errand had vanished. He thanked the clerk and strode toward the three women.

“Good afternoon, Regan. Miss Bramwell. Miss Tyne,” he said, cordially bowing. He pivoted the toe of his right boot in the direction of the door, his thoughts on escape. “Do not allow me to distract you from your errands.”

Regan grabbed his hand and tugged him closer. “Oh, no, you do not escape me that easily!” She rolled up on her toes and placed a chaste kiss on his cheek.

Although they were not related by blood, Regan was a sister of his heart. As Frost’s younger sibling, she had literally been raised by the Lords of Vice. Each of them had contributed to her unconventional education. Vane had shared with her his passion for chemistry—and, inadvertently, his penchant for playing with fire. Fortunately, Nox’s kitchens suffered most of the damage, and Regan had been sent away to a boarding school. Though Vane suspected her five-year banishment from London had more to do with Dare than with the fire.

Not that the separation had quelled the attraction between Regan and Dare. His friend had married Regan within weeks of her return to London.

Vane could hardly blame Dare. Beautiful, intelligent, and adventurous as any Lord of Vice, Regan was a treasure, one he had also contemplated claiming for himself. However, he did not envy having Frost as a brother-in-law.

Dare was a brave man, indeed!

“I cannot believe Dare has allowed you out of the house without a footman or two to look after you and your friends.”

Regan rolled her eyes. “You are a fine one to lecture me. I heard that you tried to chase down a pickpocket in this very shop!”

“Not alone. I had a little help,” he said drily, thinking of the courageous Miss Thorne.

Her two companions, Miss Tyne and Miss Bramwell, smiled at her light scolding.

Regan continued as if Vane had not spoken. “Besides, we have two men just beyond the door. I would never hear the end of it from Dare or Frost if I wandered London alone.”

His friends had good reason for their concern. Last spring, Regan had become separated from the footman watching over her, and a madwoman had pushed her into the busy street. It was a miracle Regan had not been trampled to death by a horse or wagon.

Vane shifted slightly to include Regan’s friends in their conversation. “Miss Tyne and Miss Bramwell, you both look lovely as always. And Miss Tyne, forgive me for not congratulating you on your recent betrothal. My mother tells me the wedding will take place in the autumn.”

Miss Tyne blushed at his attention. “Thank you, Lord Vanewright. Yes, the wedding will take place in September.”

Regan’s blue eyes narrowed on him. She poked his chest with her finger. “You think you are clever, do you not?”

“Often enough,” Vane quipped. “And you disagree?”

“All the compliments and flummery will not distract me from my original question,” Regan said, nodding to her friends for support. “You have not told us why you are here.”

Even though he doubted Regan would blush if he told her that he was waiting for his mistress to appear from one of the private rooms, Vane was reluctant to confess the true reason why he had returned to the dressmaker’s shop.

He had purchased the poppy evening dress for Miss Thorne.

Vane had observed her face when she and Delia were arguing over the dress. Once he had seen the Thorne sisters’ modest dwelling, he understood Isabel’s casual dismissal of an evening dress that she clearly desired.

It was the least he could do for her. After all, she had rescued his snuffbox from the young pickpocket.

Still, he doubted Miss Thorne would wear his gift if she was aware that several ladies of the
ton
knew its origin. He could trust Regan to remain silent. However, Miss Tyne and Miss Bramwell did not owe him their loyalty. If word got out, the gossips could shred Miss Thorne’s reputation within an evening.

“Didn’t I?” He leaned forward and kissed Regan on the cheek. “It’s a pity I do not have more time for explanations.”

“Now, see here!”

Vane ignored Regan’s frustrated outburst. “Ladies, I am certain we will meet again. Regan, tell your husband that I will be stopping by Nox this evening.”

His errand completed, he walked away as quickly as decorum permitted.

*   *   *

“Dashing in front of a pickpocket!” Lady Netherley exclaimed as she poured tea into Isabel’s empty cup. “I cannot decide if that was the bravest or most foolhardy thing I have ever heard.”

“My only thought was to slow his escape,” Isabel explained, feeling calmer after spending the past two hours with the marchioness. “It was Lord Vanewright who was supposed to catch him.”

Her nervousness was to be expected, since her experiences with the
bon ton
were rather limited. Isabel had spent all her life in the quiet village of Cotersage. Even though her mother was the daughter of a viscount, her marriage to a commoner severed all ties between her family and London society. If Lady Netherley had not been visiting a sick friend in the country, Isabel would have never met this unpretentious, sweet-natured woman.

“I hope my son thanked you for your bravery.”

A faint smile played upon her lips as she thought about their encounter. “Only after he lectured me for taking a foolish risk.”

“Although I applaud the originality of your introduction, I must agree with Christopher.”

“Christopher?”

“My son,” Lady Netherley replied. “It is a lovely name, is it not?”

“Indeed.”

“Oh, everyone refers to him by his title, or simply Vane, as he prefers, but he shall always be my Christopher.”

“You are his mother. Of course, such intimacy is appropriate.”

Lady Netherley picked up a spoon and stirred her tea. “As it is between a man and wife.”

Isabel tried not to choke as she swallowed her tea. “And you believe my sister is the perfect lady for Lord Vanewright?”

“I do. A mother knows a thing or two about her son, and the moment Mrs. Whitechurch introduced me to you and your sister, I sensed that Delia was the key to my quandary.”

“You mentioned that Lord Vanewright has resisted your matchmaking efforts over the years.”

“Christopher can be rather stubborn about certain matters, but I am certain you and I will bring him around.”

“Me?” Isabel said, startled that she was being included.

“Obviously, my dear. From what I recall of your sister, Delia is no more interested in marriage than my son. Together, we must conspire and think of ways to bring them together. Delia is quite beautiful, and Christopher appreciates true beauty. Nature will take its course, and soon I will be preparing for a wedding. What do you think of a summer wedding?”

“A summer wedding would be wonderful,” Isabel said, feeling more than a little guilty that she and the marchioness had brought Delia to London under false pretenses.

Lady Netherley was correct. Delia had no desire to marry. Like a caged exotic bird, her sister longed for her freedom. Marrying the first gentleman she encountered in London was not part of her sister’s plans. Nevertheless, Isabel had seen curiosity in Delia’s gaze whenever it settled on the handsome earl. Some marriages began with even less.

No, whether Delia liked it or not, she held her family’s welfare in her delicate hands. Becoming the Countess of Vanewright, and eventually the Marchioness of Netherley, would save her family from financial ruin. It would also give Delia all the things that she craved out of life. Wealth. A place in the
ton
. Respect. The freedom to fulfill every whim and secret desire.

“Miss Thorne. Isabel?”

“I beg your pardon, Lady Netherley,” Isabel said, embarrassed that she had been caught woolgathering. “You were saying?”

The marchioness glanced at the closed door. Fearing that they might be overheard, she lowered her voice. “My son is clever. He will be suspicious of anything that I say or do, so I will be depending on you to be my eyes and ears.”

Isabel carefully set down her teacup. “I will admit that I have some concerns about this plan. I am not certain I can meet your expectations, Lady Netherley, since it will require me forming a friendship with Lord Vanewright. To be frank, I do not believe your son has any desire to speak with me again.”

The marchioness smiled at her. Beneath all that sweetness, there was a kind of shrewdness that prickled the tiny hairs at the nape of her neck.

“Never fear, my dear. You will encounter my son again.”

Chapter Eight

“Brace yourself, dear brother. I am moving in with you and I am in no mood for arguments.”

Vane opened one eyelid to see his younger sister, Ellen, standing in the open doorway of his library. Like him, she was blessed with the dark hair of their sire and their mother’s clear blue-green eyes. She was a pretty little thing with a flawless complexion, a lean, almost boyish build, and too much intelligence for her own good. At seven-and-twenty, she was still unmarried, which was another thing they had in common. As a small child, she had been his best friend, playmate, and fellow slayer of dragons.

“And you thought disturbing my nap would sweeten my disposition?”

“Susan is arguing again with her husband,” his sister announced as she strode into the room without waiting for an invitation. “She has brought the children with her. Not all of them, mind you, but I saw at least six of the twelve. When I left, our sister was telling Mama that she will not sleep under the same roof with Pypart until he has apologized properly to her.”

“For what?” Vane asked, repositioning himself so that he was resting on his elbows. He had resigned himself to the thought that the nap he’d been anticipating had come abruptly to an end. “According to Pypart, he has made his apologies. Numerous times.”

Ellen gave him an exasperated look. “Of course he has. Our brother-in-law’s sins are many.” She walked over to the sofa and slapped at his boots. Obliging her, he shifted his legs until they were planted on the floor. She sat down at the end of the long sofa.

“Pypart isn’t a villainous brute, Ellen. He is simply flawed like most of God’s creations. His problem lies not in the fact that he cannot seem to resist sticking his co—” Vane caught himself and tried to amend his words of civil company. “Himself in ladies other than his wife. It is his damnable regret afterward and his need for absolution. He should do like any other self-respecting gent and
lie
to his wife.”

Ellen laughed. “Especially to our sister. Mama tells me that Susan chased her husband around the bedchamber with a brass bed warmer.”

“That does not sound horrible.”

Unholy glee lit up his sister’s eyes. “It was filled with hot coals.”

Vane winced in sympathy. “Fortunately for Pypart, he is quite light on his feet.” All of his indiscretions had kept his brother-in-law fit.

“She beat him soundly when she caught him.” Enjoying herself, Ellen twisted so they were face-to-face. She clasped both of his hands, silently encouraging him to sit up. “According to Mama, Pypart’s clothing ignited as he was showered in a hail of burning coals and his wife’s hellish temper.”

“Hellish temper is right. When I was a small lad, Susan used to take a broom handle to me if she caught me misbehaving.” Or whatever else was within reach. “I pity her children. All of them are probably sporting half a dozen dents in their skulls for their transgressions.”

Vane and Ellen laughed, though it was not out of cruelty. Their elder sister had behaved like a second mother rather than a sibling because of their differences in ages. Susan had already married when their mother had given birth to Vane, and eighteen months later to Ellen. With an unfaithful, albeit apologetic husband, and twelve children who needed a firm hand and guidance, their sister had little patience to spare for her younger brother and sister.

“Well to be fair, Mama was always reluctant to punish us,” Ellen said, releasing his hands so she could toy with a lock of his dark hair. “Susan thought if Papa had beaten you once a week, you would not have fallen in with those womanizing scoundrels that you call your friends.”

It sounded like something Susan would have said. “The Lords of Vice? The rumors that you’ve heard are exaggerations and lies, dear sister,” Vane said with feigned outrage.

“Mmm,” Ellen said, tugging on his hair. “And what of that gambling hell you call Nox?”

Vane put his arm affectionately around his sister. “A club of charitable deeds.” He ignored her burst of laughter. “No, seriously, our club provides certain amusements for the lost souls wandering about London.” He failed to mention the fallen doves Madame Venna sent to Nox each evening or the depravity that often took place in the private rooms upstairs.

“I’ll wager these lost souls fill the Lords of Vice’s coffers rather handsomely.”

“Nox provides its own rewards to all who pass through our doors,” he said with as much dignity as he could muster.

In truth, Nox was one of the more notorious clubs in London. Founded by Vane and his six friends, and situated near the more fashionable clubs of St. James and Covent Garden at 44 King Street, Nox was a veritable den of corruption if the papers were to be believed. The Lords of Vice as the seven of them were often called had desired an elegant place to meet and play away from the disapproving scrutiny of the
ton
.

It was Hunter who solved the dilemma of a site when he donated the now eighty-eight-year-old house that had been a gift from his grandmother. In a joint venture, all seven of them contributed resources and labor to renovate the old building.

Vane could not recall who had originally suggested opening the lower half of the house to guests and potential club members, but such a mercenary scheme was likely Frost’s idea. With Mr. Charles Berus as steward, the gaming hell paid for its costly upkeep as well as the staff’s wages.